


Kissing Lessons

by dotfic



Category: Some Kind of Wonderful (1987), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairing, F/M, Preseries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-14
Updated: 2006-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watts lied to Keith about how she learned how to kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: preseries, AU to make their ages match.  
> Disclaimer: Some Kind of Wonderful is owned by Paramount Pictures. Dean Winchester is the property of Eric Kripke and the CW.
> 
> A/N: This is in part researchgrrrl's doing. The evening CSPWDT aired we got into discussion of SPN and John Hughes films and Dean and...I blinked first. Because apparently crossover crack!fic, in addition to meta, is my coping mechanism.
> 
> Huge bunches of thanks to researchgrrrl for the beta and the trip through rock history. Other useful information from <http://www.somekindofwonderful.org>

It's morning when she first sees him.

She's waiting while Keith rummages through his locker, trying to find the paint brush with the thick bristles. She's never pretended to understand why it has to be the big brush with the thick bristles, not the small brush with the thin bristles but Keith knows what he's doing when he paints, and Watts is willing to wait because it means five more minutes of hanging out with Keith walking to class.

"Yo, c'mon, before I'm eighty!" Watts leans her back against the lockers.

"Okay, give me a second!" He pulls his head out a moment to say gently, deadpan, "You ever try decaf?"

"Very funny, ha ha, Keith. You should be on Letterman."

Keith goes back into his locker and that's when Watts spots a new guy leaning against the opposite bank of lockers. His short-cropped blond hair stands up in messy spikes, and she'd think he doesn't care what his hair looks like except he's clearly used gel. He's wearing a Damage Inc tour t-shirt, jeans worn threadbare in the knees, and biker boots with metal buckles.

There's nothing special about him: he looks like a hundred other kids at school, except in the ways he doesn't. Something about him doesn't fit, maybe it's the way he carries three textbooks like they weigh nothing, or that he seems as if he might actually be carrying weaponry and not putting on a 'tude to make you think that he is.

Metallica Boy turns his head and catches her staring at him. She immediately turns away, drumming her fingers against the locker behind her, looking busy. But she can't help sneaking another glance and when she does he's looking her over, from the top of her head down to her shoes, in a way she's not used to being looked over.

Then the doors open and a group of girls walks in, Amanda Jones in the middle like the center stone of a necklace.

Fuckin' Amanda Jones. The sunlight streams in behind her, bathing her in light before the door closes.

You might almost think she gets to school late because she knows the sun will slant through that door at exactly 8:56 and show her off to the best advantage.

That's the end of Watts getting checked out by Metallica Boy. Like every other guy in the east hallway at that moment, his eyes swivel away to Jones. He watches her appraisingly, his lips pursing a little, approving. Not reverent, not staring at her like he's in church having a vision, the way Keith is staring at Amanda right now.

Idiot.

Watts slams his locker shut, making sure Keith's fingers are clear but only just. His tall, gangly frame jumps.

"Watts! What the hell!"

"You're going to make me late. I gotta go."

"Sure, okay." His apologetic tone just makes her more pissed off. Normally that patience is reason number one hundred and fifteen why she's very glad Keith is Keith.

But right now, he's pissing her off. If she can't get reverence out of him, she wants _something_. Anger will do.

Watts walks away alone.

She doesn't look back to see if Keith is watching her.

Surprisingly, she wonders if Metallica Boy is.

*

A few days later there's a special assembly about the attacks in the area. Three people have been killed, their bodies mutilated. The police think it could be a wild animal.

Keith doodles funny sketches for her, but she suspects it's more for his benefit than for hers. Watts watches gory movies all the time, not just slasher films but gangster movies. They're just movies, it doesn't bother her, but Keith always seems a bit pale after the worst of them.

The sheriff advises them not to go out alone after dark, instructing them to use the buddy system. All the attacks have been at night.

Watts spots Amanda over by the wall, in the row behind theirs, her lower lip caught between her perfect teeth, forehead creased. She actually looks scared. Her creepy-ass boyfriend Hardy puts his arm around her. He's a complete fake: Watts saw him making out with Mia behind the school yesterday. But he puts on a good act of manly concern, and Amanda leans her head on his shoulder.

If Watts bit her lower lip and acted like a trembling scared girlie-girl, Keith would put his hand on her forehead to check if she had a fever.

Which hey, not the worst plan in the world. At least he'd be touching her. The mere thought of Keith's hand on her forehead does more for her than kissing the boys she'd actually kissed.

She'd always heard kissing was pretty damn great, and shit, the way people did it in the movies -- and in the audience -- it looked like fun.

The first kiss hadn't gone so well. It was with a kid from junior high. They kind of bumped noses and his lips had barely touched hers. So she'd tried again with some guy who lived down the street who was kind of cute but sort of stupid and he'd mashed his lips against hers briefly before immediately trying to feel her up. After she'd punched him, he said he wasn't sure why he'd bothered in the first place, there wasn't anything there to feel up. So she'd punched him again. More recent experiments with kissing boys had been less violent but still left her wondering what the hell all the fuss was about.

The sheriff keeps on talking, somehow working in a lecture against underage sex and drinking. Watts slouches in her seat and rolls her head a little to keep herself awake. The sheriff gets back on topic, finally, telling them the locations of the attacks.

That's when she spots Metallica Boy. Today he's wearing a plain gray one under a jean jacket with a hole in one sleeve. His heavy biker boots are up on the back of the seat in front of him. The kid in that seat sits stiffly as if he's trying to pretend there aren't a pair of huge boots on either side of his ears. If she were that kid, Watts might not argue either. Metallica Boy looks like he could knock the kid over with one light smack. But the guy is careful not to let his boots touch the kid's head; he's doing it not to annoy anyone but because he's happiest slumped in his seat with his feet up.

This guy and Amanda Jones are the only two kids in the entire student body who seem to be listening to the sheriff. Metallica Boy is watching the sheriff intently, frowning a bit. His slump, the way his fingers tap against the edge of his boot, doesn't seem to match the focus of his gaze. He nods faintly as the sheriff gives a cross-street, as if he's really trying to remember it. He's taking all of this seriously but you wouldn't know it unless you stared hard at him the way Watts is doing.

She turns away quickly before he can catch her at it.

*

On Friday, she and Keith go out to hear a new band. She drops Keith off at his house afterwards.

Halfway home, her car stalls.

"Thanks a lot, bitch." Watts pulls her key from the ignition. "I give you gasoline, I wash you, I take you in for regular tune-ups and this is the thanks I get? You could be rusting in a junkyard. I saved you from oblivion."

No one knows she talks to her car, not even Keith. She doesn't do it when anyone else is around.

So she walks home. No big deal, this has happened about twelve times in the past year. It's not a big town, takes her about half an hour to get home, walking down the middle of the empty streets, past the sleeping houses that have two parents and siblings who were actually around once in a while to answer the phone when she called because the Mini broke down again.

Not that she bothers trying to call home this time.

Hell, she has Keith, she has her drums. You appreciate what you got.

The nice residential streets end, giving way to cracked pavement and empty lots with the refinery lights in the distance. Half the street lights here are busted, but she's not going to worry about that or how she maybe shouldn't be walking alone this late.

She starts humming the drumbeats of "Fade to Black." It soothes her, the pace of her footsteps falling into rhythm with the beats.

A shadow moves against an abandoned garage, which gives her minor adrenaline shock.

Then the thing steps out into full view and she can hardly breathe. Watts pulls out her drumsticks. It's all she's got for weapons. Maybe she can stab it.

Holding up the sticks in her right fist, Watts steps backwards. The thing's tall with long skinny legs and arms, with a pointed chin and long, pointed ears. Maybe Grams was right. Maybe this is the devil finally come to get her. Grams used to say the devil always got you in the end, no one was without sin so you might as well live life and enjoy yourself.

She misses Grams something awful; even now remembering her voice makes moisture sting her eyes.

Or it could be terror.

"Keith," she whispers, intending to shout.

The thing springs at her. Watts turns and bolts, forgetting her plan to plunge the drumsticks into the rough, scaly gray skin.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this isn't her time, it just isn't fucking possible, no fucking _way_ \-- its grasp clamps around her leg, bringing her crashing down. Her drumsticks snap against the broken pavement. Her palms scrape against the concrete. She tries to squirm out of the creature's grasp, her breath hitching in her chest and no fucking way...

There's a _thwap_ and the creature jerks once and lets go of her. A second _thwap_ and it howls, then slumps on top of her.

The thing's scent, putrid like turned milk and rotten leaves, makes her gag. She frantically pulls herself out from under it. Two arrows stick out of its back.

Backlit by the one working street light, Metallica Boy slowly lowers the crossbow he holds in one hand.

Watts crosses herself.

"You okay?" he asks, reaching down with his free hand to help her up. "Did it injure you?"

She shakily gets to her feet on her own. "Nah, scraped my palms a little is all." She takes a deep breath to get the tremble out of her voice. "What the hell is that thing?"

"No fucking idea," he says, and nudges it with his boot. The creature is limp as a sandbag now. "You ever seen anything like that?" He raises his eyebrows.

"Not outside of a horror movie." Watts puts a hand over her mouth, trying not to gag again.

"Guess we should call the police so they can come pick it up."

"Guess so." She lowers her hand and shrugs.

"I should probably walk you home. There might be...other ones."

"More than one of _that_?" She makes herself laugh.

"Yeah, you're right." He gives her a lopsided smile and rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly. "Ridiculous, huh?"

She bends to pick up the pieces of her drumsticks. "Shit." She's got other sets, but that set was her best, her favorite, and expensive. She won't be able to replace them anytime soon.

What's done is done. "So...what's with the crossbow?" she asks.

"Oh, I was just out...target practice. I use one of the empty lots. Archery's a hobby of mine." He watches as she tucks the broken drumsticks back into her jeans. "What were you planning to do, stab that thing with those?"

"Hey. Some girls carry mace, I have drumsticks."

"You play?"

"A little."

"Who do you like better, Bonham or McBrain?"

"Neither. Philthy Animal Taylor."

"You're shitting me." He glares at her as if personally offended.

"Hey, arrow boy, you asked. As a matter of fact, I was yankin' your chain. Seriously? I'd have to go with Rick Allen."

The guy smacks his palm to his forehead. "Allen. Right."

They walk on. He carries the crossbow down against his leg as naturally as if it were a baseball bat. She thinks maybe he's done trying to make with the conversation, but then he asks, his tone too critical for her liking, "Why would a smart chick like you try walking alone at night in this neighborhood with the attacks going on?"

"Because I live here," she says. "On Emden Street. And no wiseass cracks from you or my drumsticks go up your nose."

"Hey...no, I wasn't...I just meant you shouldn't have been walking alone."

"What's that?" Watts put her hand to her ear, then snaps her fingers. "That's right, that would be none of your business! Also: pot, kettle. You thought it was a good idea to be out here alone at night?"

"You this nice to everyone who saves your life?"

He does have a point. "Sorry," she mutters. "I have this car...it breaks down a lot. It's a 1961 Mini."

"Seriously?" His stride falters and when she looks at him he's smiling wide.

"Seriously."

"What model?"

"An 850. My friend Keith, he works in a garage. Helped me fix it up so it runs, which it does only when it's in the mood. Anyway, there's no one home who could pick me up. So I walked. Do it all the time. Not my fault if some kind of mutant freak thing escaped from a lab somewhere."

"I assume you're referring to the monster, not me?"

"You're gonna die wondering."

They stop in front of her house.

"Well...bye," she says, and turns away.

"What, no thank you kiss?"

She freezes, then turns back with her hands on her hips. "Excuse me?"

"It's customary."

She snorts. "You make a habit of rescuing girls just to get in their pants?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

It's impossible not to watch his mouth when he grins like that and maybe she should let him...he's got full lips that look like they could be hard or soft depending on how he wanted the kiss to go. Also, she likes his hands, they look strong and assured, the way he holds that crossbow. They remind her of Keith's hands. He uses his for art but he also fixes cars. Hands that could be used for power or art.

"Well." She turns away. "I appreciate the assist, kid, really. Have a nice life."

His gaze hits in between her shoulder blades as she walks up the steps and goes inside the tiny house. When she glances back before she closes the door, he's gone.

Watts puts her back up against the door and slides down to sit on the dirty linoleum floor. She draws her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs. Her hands are stinging as she finally lets herself shiver in reaction.

*

It's just minutes after dawn when she arrives at her car. The early sun makes everything look shinier than it ought to be. Watts thought she would try to get it to start on her own before she tried calling Keith.

She doesn't want to call Keith. If she calls Keith, he'll ask about the scrapes on her palms and if he asks she might tell him about the monster and if she does that she might cry in front of him and Watts would rather die a thousand deaths.

But someone is already working on her car.

"So what are you, my stalker now?"

Metallica Boy pulls his head out from under the raised hood. "My Dad has a '67 Chevy. I help him with it all the time. Figured I could get this baby up and running for you."

She approaches cautiously while he goes back to work on the engine. "And you wanted to do this because..."

"Nothing better to do." His powerful shoulders shrug. He's in a plain black t-shirt this morning, jeans, red converse sneakers, no jacket.

Watts laughs. "Yeah. Me neither." She climbs up onto the roof of the Mini, stretches her legs out so her heels touch the top of the windshield, and leans back on her hands. "What, you randomly wandered the streets until you found a busted Mini?"

"Wasn't hard to spot."

He goes on working while she fidgets with the holes in her jeans and the tassles on her leather gloves.

"Okay, get in and try it." Metallica Boy slams the hood down, steps back, and wipes his hands on the rag he pulls from his back pocket.

She slides down the front of the car, rolls off to the side, gets in, and starts it. The engine roars to life.

Metallica Boy puts two fingers to his forehead in salute. "See you around."

"Hey." She turns off the engine, pockets her key, and climbs out, leaving the door open. He stops and waits. "In retrospect, I think it might have been rude of me not to thank you for saving my life last night, and now you've fixed my car." She clears her throat. "So, thank you."

"What's your name?"

He moves closer, facing her across the open door. In the dawn sunlight now she notices the freckles on his nose and cheeks, the tiny cuts and scars on his hands.

"You can call me Watts." She licks her lips. "I've given it some thought and have also considered that maybe I should give you that kiss after all."

"Too much thinking can be bad for you, you know." He moves closer. Now she can see the tiny scar almost hidden by his left eyebrow. His hair is darker than she thought.

She swallows, her heart hammering. "What's your name?"

"Dean."

"Nice to meet you, Dean."

Quick, before she loses her nerve, she presses her lips against his and pulls away.

He looks at her consideringly.

She feels her hair crinkle, the heat rising in her face. "What?"

Dean purses his lips and runs a grease-stained finger along the top of the door. "Nothin'."

"What?" she repeats, as her fingers curl into a fist.

"You'll get mad at me."

Watts wants an earthquake to happen right now, the street to open up and swallow her.

"Hey, I get it. I'm not real good at it. See you."

She turns to retreat into her car, but he gently grabs her arm.

"I don't know if you're good at it or not, because you didn't do it. Not the right way."

"And you're some kind of expert?"

He grins in an insufferably smug way. "I've been told I'm...talented."

"Okay. Prove it."

It's going to be fun wiping that grin off his face. Guys. So full of themselves.

"C'mere," he says. He pulls her away from the door, then kicks it shut with his foot. "Now stand about there."

"Like this?" She says, mock-serious.

Her back is against the car. He puts his hands on her hips, hooking his fingers into the beltloops of her jeans. His palms are warm through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.

"You should probably put your arms around my neck -- " he detaches one hand from her hip to take her left wrist, guiding her. " -- like that."

She does it, twining her fingers together behind his neck and, Christ, he smells good. Deodorant, no hair gel, just soap, a hint of grease and sweat. There's something else she can't place but it reminds her of church, melted wax and the afterscent of a blown-out candle.

"Close your eyes," he says softly, his hand returning to her hip.

"You sure you know what you're..."

"Shut up. Tilt your head back...that's right, a little to the right...open your mouth just a bit."

Her eyes fly open. "Open my --"

"Watts." He sighs. "You want to do this or not?"

"All right, all right." She closes her eyes again, tilts her head, opens her mouth slightly, feeling like a complete fool. Maybe it's all a gag and any second now one of his jackass friends will jump out behind a tree to snap her picture.

Then his lips press warm against hers, lightly at first, then with gradually increasing pressure. His tongue softly runs along her lower lips first, then touches her teeth, then finds her tongue. He shifts, pulling her closer against him, before she feels his hand leave her hip to trail up her arm. His fingers massage the base of her neck.

Meanwhile he keeps doing that thing with his tongue and holy _shit_ she really had been doing it wrong all this time.

She can't even feel the car against her back anymore, just his hands and his mouth. Even the sounds of birds and traffic fade. Her fingers untwine and dig into his hair.

When the kiss stops, she opens her eyes and sags back against the car. Her legs feel shaky like they did after the thing attacked her last night, only in a way that's completely different. His hands drop away from her.

"So?" Dean rests his hand, palm flat against the roof of the Mini and she can't stop staring at his hand, thinking it should be touching things other than her car.

A train whistle sounds in the distance. Watts raises an eyebrow and juts out her jaw. "That was okay."

" _Okay?_ "

"It was nice. I didn't...um...I didn't know it was supposed to feel like that."

"What kind of losers have you been kissing?"

He looks so cross she laughs. "Just some jerks around school."

"Not that tall red-head you hang around with?"

"I wish," she says, before she can stop herself.

"Oh-ho." He leans companionably against the car next to her, folding his arms. "Is that how it is?"

Watts looks down at her boots. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure," he says.

"Look, I gotta..." she opens the car door again.

"Oh, yeah." He glances at his watch. "My little brother will be wondering where I went. I promised to take him out...archery practice."

So he did have something better to do that morning, after all.

"You have siblings?"

"Just the one. Little pain in the ass." His face softens.

"Guess I'll see you in school."

"Hey, Watts." Dean leans in across the door and kisses her again, tracing her cheekbone with his fingers. "You kiss real good."

It takes her a few seconds to gather a comeback, and by then it's too late, he's halfway down the street. He strides rather than walks. She watches until he turns the corner.

*

Monday, the corridor is its usual zoo of school life. Someone has a boom box going, which will last only until some teacher hears it and it gets confiscated. Soda cans, papers, cursing. A fight starts two locker banks down.

Watts spins the combination on her locker and opens it.

The sounds fade around her as she reaches in and pulls out the pair of drumsticks. They're tied together with a strip of scarlet leather that almost matches the shade of her gloves. The drumsticks aren't identical to the ones that broke, but damn close; they're a good brand.

"Hey." Keith pops up on her right. He glances down and sees the drumsticks on her hand. "What are those?"

"Giant toothpicks." Watts turns and scans the hall, but he's not there.

She's not sure how she knows. Maybe it's because he broke into her locker to leave the drumsticks for her with red leather around them instead of handing them to her himself.

"Someone leave you a present?" Keith frowns a little.

She fingers the leather. "Guess so." She slides the drumsticks into her back pocket and takes her books out of the locker.

"Well, who?"

Slamming the locker door, Watts says, "A guy I know."

"What guy?"

"What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? A guy."

"Okay, just curious." Keith holds up his hands. She thinks he's done but then he goes on, "So is this someone you know from the club or..."

"Keith." Watts stops, turns, and gently pats his cheek. "There are some things about me you aren't ready to know."

The look on his face is worth gold to her.

Turns out she's right: Dean's gone. She doesn't spot him in the halls that day, or the next, or the rest of the week or the week following.

Watts keeps the strip of leather tied around the base of one of her new drumsticks.

~end


End file.
